So I Married A Serial Killer
by Lolo Darkhorse
Summary: Happily ever after, eh? The Fun Starts Here!
1. Pilot

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of any of these characters except for the Kills and their families. Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd-Webber, Joel Schumacher et al retain their copyrights. I just chew on them.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home!" he hollers. Always one for the classics, is my man. 

"Dear!" I replied, "could you come into the laundry please?" Sweet as Pie. But this time I had really had enough.

Moments tick by. Tense moments. I can hear him thinking, the cogs in his wormy brain are grinding so audibly. "Did I mix whites with colours?" "Did I leave the iron turned on all night" "Did I leave my kills to drain up here instead of down in the – uh oh"

"Honey! My Beloved! Kitten! You know how I am when I get in…" he wheedles, clearly avoiding the daggers being hurled at him as he tiptoes around the laundry door.

"It's only overnight, and then you know I clean it up…"

Meek evasion turns, predictably, to passive aggression.

"And really, I **don't** see what the big deal is! It's not like you're in here, slaving over the tub for hours everyday. I seem to recollect you saying that as long as Meg got the dry-cleaning sorted you didn't care to **ever** set foot in here **ever** again!"

He sidles up, bloodshot eyeballs in my face. So very charming, my husband. Not the commando in charge of long-term plans though. I place my arms around his pretty neck and calmly extract the closest dagger from the wall where it is embedded behind his self-righteous head.

"Darling" I purr, bringing the blade to rest against his better cheek, "do it again and I'll carve you a new one" I smile. He loves it when I smile. "Not that you wouldn't appreciate that".

I step back, albeit cautiously – Meg will only put up with so many "innocuous" bloodstains on my clothing. He looks somewhat chastened but still I feel the point has not reached home.

"Listen, Erik, my love, I know we're both new at this domesticity trip, but if we are to get along, you must simply accept that I will not tolerate ex-parking inspectors or other deceased persons hanging from meat-hooks in every room with a tiled surface. You will simply not do this anymore, do you understand? I won't have it!"

"Then where!" he grumps

"There is a perfectly good storage cage downstairs in the carpark".

I step around him, leaving him to his various states of eye-rolling, seething and monstrous self-pity. I had a lovely new edition of Martha Stewart Living to enjoy after-all.

**Kill Report #1: Larry – the ex-parking inspector**

**Age at Time of Death: 42**

**Time of Death: 3.04pm Tuesday – minutes after the clearway-rule became active**

**Means of Death: Strangulation by key-chain.**

**Deceased is survived by: De-facto spouse Mary-Alice (39) and pet iguana Snowflake (7).  
**

_Next Week on Psycho-killers and the Loving Lovers who Love them: Erik figures that having a "living bride" maybe wasn't such a hot idea after-all._


	2. Episode 2: Attack on the Cojones

_A/N – More shout-outs than your average episode of "Lost"! My apologies to:_

_Wes Anderson, Jean-Paul Gaultier, Polly Moopers from PPN, Margaret Mitchell, Gurinder Chadha and of course, Claude._

_In response to Tango: All in good time, the artistic process can be a slow one!_

_ETA: Whoops! Forgot another 3 Very Important Credits – Bret Easton Ellis, George Lucas (who really should not be given credit where-ever possible) and of course my personal hero Tango for the clever line at the end…_

* * *

"Don't just look at it Erik, eat it!" I mutter, leaning back into my pillow.

"But it tastes…fishy. Is it meant to taste like that? Are you sure you washed it properly, before?" he replies, his normally resonant voice muffled and, well, more than a little angsty.

"Just what exactly are you implying, hmmm? That I have less than delicate sensibilities? That I am a hot-bed of unhygienic practices? I told you! I gave the tureen a thorough scrubbing after we finished the bouillabaisse. There are no traces of the life aquatic in your vichyssoise!" I hissed. "And **yes** it's meant to be served cold! Now hurry up and finish your dinner, brush your teeth and come to bed. I want to get off before 10, I have rehearsal tomorrow, remember?"

My beloved, always highly alert to the potential for reciprocal benefits, quickly un-stuffs the serviette from his mouth – a crude fish-filter? Feigned propriety? Who can tell, the man's a diagnosed lunatic. Soup is promptly finished, fangs – er – incisors promptly scrubbed, a quick smell-check and he joins me under the sheets.

"Mmmmm, what's that new cologne you've got again?"

This hint of wifely interest is the only trigger he needs to assume his 'expert lover' pose. As if. Before I showed interest he was strictly material for Professionals Only.

"It's called _Mariposa de Muerte_. 'Butterfly of Death'. Gaultier!"

"Oh" I feel deflated. Gaultier perfumes tend to bring me out in a rash.

"Well, let's get busy then. I'd like a No.2 Special please, chop chop!"

He starts heading down to the appropriate area but I can hear him grumbling beneath the duvet. I know it's not entirely fair that only I get to have fun tonight but the prospect of being covered in a rash smelling of "Death" somewhat lessens my interest in what he wants.

More grumbling, though it seems he is getting the job done……

"OUCHHHH! Be careful you idiot!" I emphasise my point with a kick.

His flushed and somewhat irritated face pops out. "You said to hurry didn't you? Maybe I should just use the orbital sander and have done with it"

"You behave yourself, or I'll take the other one!" I point behind us to the shelf above our bed-head. There sits a little jar, snugly bedecked with ribbons from my bridal bouquet. Inside safely swims Erik' left testicle, which I extracted from him on our wedding night as a guarantee for a long and happy marriage. Granted, he won't let me look at buying another letter-opener again, but I think that's a sacrifice I can live with. I just let him open the mail instead.

"You know, this shared-bed set-up is really NOT FUN when you're like this. I think the rats were better company. Why did you marry me anyway?"

"Why, Erik! To keep you for a pet!" I snark.

We turn over, backs to each other, the night' festivities now clearly at an end. And the muttering continues.

Should've stayed a ghost…." And similar.

"Yeah well, No Life without Wife, baby!"

Silence.

"Kitten?"

"Yessssss?"

"After rehearsal tomorrow, can you buy me a sack of barley seeds?"

"I'll see."

"Thankyou"

"I have to get the new issue of _Vogue Living_ anyhow"

Resigned sigh. And minutes later, familiar gentle snoring drifts into the night.

**Kill Report#2: Claude – Erik's Left Testicle**

**Age at Time of Death: Oh, let' say…38**

**Time of Death: 1.07am March 23**

**Means of Death: Detachment by letter-opener as consideration referable to the marriage contract**

**Deceased is Survived By: Francis – Erik's right testicle (38 and a half).**

_Next Time on The Immaculate Lives of Innocent Murderers: Christine considers the virtues of allowing Erik to continue pursuing his career as an Installation Artist._


	3. Fear of a Blonde Planet Part 1

_My most sincere regrets to: Public Enemy; Deborah Moggach, director Joseph Ruben & executive producer Jeffrey Chernov. And to anyone who might have been expecting a quicker update than in, what, 8 months?_

* * *

"Erik smash!" 

"Erik, use the damn microwave!"

"Erik CHOP!"

Sigh. He still hasn't really come to terms with the concept of cooked food. A life devoted to foraging for patrons' leftovers and the occasional small mammal has not exactly set him up for cohabitation with a Smeg kitchen.

"What's wrong with how I eat? Look at me! I'm fine"

"Yes, you're a paragon of health. But, my little Ratsnatcher, frozen meat really should be _thawed_ first, before you start chomping. And I don't think throwing it at the window or other threats of blunt force are really the best ways to go about it, hmm?"

I am worried about him, I admit it. I am also worried about the smell, however, and in this 2 horse race, my sinus passages win out over "for better or worse". And so I have naturally decided to relocate to my favourite hydrotherapy retreat. As for Erik – he doesn't cope very well at those few times I follow through on the primal urge to flee and leave him. Last time (a simple three day trek to procure the perfect fire-screen. In Marrakech) I returned only to find a rather confrontational neighbour standing guard by a beaver-lodge of refuse, skillfully erected at the front entrance. Apparently my husband had taken to hiding within and sulking to the sounds of, alternately, The Backstreet Boys and Berlioz's _Symphonie Fantastique_. Took me 20 minutes to flush him out.

And now, here I am again. Leaving.

…

"Why must you go, my Goddess Divine?" he whines. And gnaws.

"Erik, it's not like you won't have company! I'm leaving BECAUSE our rather permanent guests are making this place unlivable."

"But I am almost finished" he wheedles "they are all cured, they need only to be refilled and posed and voila! Art is born!"

Well, be that as it may, I am determined to take my now apparently Philistine personage away from the offending installations. Raoul and I (yes, Raoul) are heading to the mountains for a spell. Turns out the de Chagny boys have exquisite taste in therapeutic bathing institutions – and they always seem to find the most darling gifts-with-purchase! Unfortunately, I have to keep my spa-buddy's identity a secret. Erik never forgave him for the whole "Operation Basement Liberation" thing. On top of that, Mr E has developed something of a penchant for conspiracy theories of late. Namely, any way he can possibly pin something on Raoul. So as far as he's concerned, I'm swanning off with some cipher named "Susan".

"Hey, I'm just about ready to go, can you help me put the stuff in the car?"

"SHHHIAMWATCHINGTHEMOVIECANITNOTWAITUNTILTHEADBREAKWOMAN!" (and chomp)

"Erik! You know **very well** DVDs do **not** include advertising breaks! That's what product-placement is for. Now, put down the t-bone. And. Help. Me."

"Fine! Whatever! Whatever! But if I miss anything big just so you can get your shrapnel massage –"

"Hot stone massage!"

" – whatever! There will be consequences! Consequences I tell you!"

"Or, you could press 'pause' on the remote"

"Yeah, yeah yeah, less talking more going"

…

The retreat was sumptuous, and, more importantly, sweetly fragranced. But all retreats must be ended at some point. Eventually you must stand your ground or be routed. So to speak. So, bearing arms of essential oils and air fresheners, we set out for the journey home. It was a pleasant drive; right up until the Mack truck clipped our rear bumper…

**Kill Report #3**

**There will be no Kill Report this week. Life is Sacred. Freaks.**


End file.
